


His words

by lizardystopia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Poetry, Season 1, Sleep Deprivation, There's really not much to say about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 03:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21229208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardystopia/pseuds/lizardystopia
Summary: Jon accidentally brings the wrong tape home one night, and finds out he really likes listening to Martin's voice.





	His words

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to get this out of my head. Not much going on here but oh well, I have too many feelings about these two, I just needed to write something cute!  
Happens during the events of season 1.

It had been a busy week. Well, to be fair, every single week ever since Jon got promoted head archivist of the Magnus Institute had been very busy and it would probably keep being for a while, considering just how big of a mess the place was—thanks to his predecessor for that—but now, with Martin staying in the Institute, the never-ending invasion of worms and the pending threat of something even worse coming closer every day… well, let’s say that the word “exhausting” had never held more bearing to Jon as of right now.

Still, there was work to do, now even more than before, and it wasn’t a few (or tons of) worms that would stop Jon from getting it done. And so, he did. He had been pushing it all week, repeating himself that he would rest when things would get quieter, but the tasks just kept piling and piling and there never seemed to be any actual time to take a break. He would come early in the morning, finding himself incapable of getting more than a few hours of sleep at a time, and would stay at the Institute until either Sasha or Martin would literally push him out of the archive room, begging him to go home and get some rest. Even then, and even when he actually tried to lie in bed and sleep, his mind wouldn’t stop obsessing about things that needed to be done, reminding him of any correction he had thought of making earlier that day, or making him doubt about things he could have done wrong.

After a while, he got into the habit of bringing a few things from work back home every night—he knew he wasn’t exactly supposed to, but it wasn’t like he was getting important stuff out of the archives either. Just a couple of tapes to make sure there wasn’t any hint or detail he had missed from the statements, or written reports from the rest of the team—because he decided that if he couldn’t find sleep, then it was better to at least do something productive than uselessly lying in bed awake for hours.

It was one of those nights, unfortunately. He didn’t even have to try falling asleep to know it wouldn’t work; he had gotten used to the feeling of restlessness and was able to tell when his mind wasn’t going to be cooperative. So, like many nights before, once he got to his apartment, he made himself a cup of tea and sat at his desk, loosening his tie a bit and setting one of the tapes he had grabbed from work into the recorder. Deep down, he kind of knew that he wouldn’t learn anything new from these statements, that he remembered them all very well, in fact, and that it seemed rather impossible that it would help him somehow with the worm situation. But it was… soothing, in a way he couldn’t explain, just listening to them again. It was kind of a weird thing to think, especially considering that it was mostly his own voice he was listening to, but it did help get him focused when his mind started to wander on things he wasn’t inclined to think about.

Dipping his lips onto the hot beverage, he pressed the lecture button and closed his eyes, waiting for the old recorder to start and for the words to come to his ears. But instead came a voice different from his own, and he almost spilled his tea when he recognized Martin’s. He put the cup on the desk again and tensed, blinking in surprise. Had he taken the wrong tape by mistake? Was he actually starting to get so damn tired that he misread the label before hiding it in his coat pocket when he left the Institute, that night?

He had been so startled for some reason that it took him almost a minute to realize that something was odd about the content of the tape. At first, he thought the tape contained a report, or follow-up information, or _anything_ work-related, really. Maybe Martin had needed to record something as a reminder, he’d thought. But the pacing was somewhat different from what he expected, and when Jon actually focused on the words, he finally understood what he was listening to.

It was… poetry.

The first thought that crossed Jon’s mind at the realization was one of annoyance. Was Martin seriously using the tapes and tape recorder of the Institute for his own hobbies? But then he remembered the situation they were in, and felt more comprehensive. There was probably not much to do for Martin, stuck in the Institute day and night, and if reading and recording some poetry helped him get his mind off the dangers waiting for him outside, who was Jon to blame him? In fact, it was good to know that he had things he liked to do in his spare time and that he wasn’t just… depressing by himself or falling too much into paranoia.

Now that he was thinking about it, he even found the idea somewhat amusing. He didn’t know Martin had such a hobby, although it didn’t exactly come as a surprise either. He tried to recognized the verses Martin’s soft voice was reciting, but when none of them sounded familiar, Jon started to wonder if the poems were maybe Martin’s own compositions. It made more sense, actually.

He reached for the stop button, but then reconsidered, remembering that he was at home and didn’t have a lot to do here anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to listen for a few minutes, just out of curiosity. He wondered for a moment if it wouldn’t be considered prying, but if Martin was careless enough to misplace his tapes, it probably meant that he didn’t mind that much if others happened to listen to it. Or maybe Jon was just looking for an excuse to listen to it anyway. He finally decided to keep listening for now, but if it ever got too personal, he would stop right away.

The poems weren’t very long, sometimes only a few lines, and there didn’t seem to be a recurring theme. Poems about nature, seasons, emotions… They weren’t quite bad, actually. Some a bit amateurish, perhaps, a little too classic… but the rhythm was pleasant and you could tell Martin had put a lot of effort and feelings into them. There also was some melancholy in his words, a certain form of loneliness that made Jon’s heart tingle. Some poems depicted feelings of being imprisoned, of uncertainty and fear, and Jon couldn’t help but notice how Martin’s voice always cracked a little at the end of those.

Sometimes, Martin would comment at the end of a poem with some afterthoughts on lines that could be perfected or some future ideas. For some obscure reason, those were the parts of the tape Jon found the most endearing. He felt his cheeks warm up at the thought, but even more than the actual content, it was listening to Martin’s beautiful voice calmly reading the words—his own words, his _feelings_—that filled him with a warmth that made him feel reassured, somehow. As if he could feel all his stress, all his fears, quietly fade away.

Without noticing he had closed his eyes and sunk into his chair, his cup of tea still waiting on the desk, long forgotten and probably cold by now. For the first time in a very, _very_ long time, he wasn’t thinking about work or problems, or checking every corner of the room for worms, or trying not to think about this feeling of being watched that was getting more and more persistent every day. He vaguely wondered if Martin was writing more poetry right now, alone with his thoughts in that smothering place; and as Jon felt his consciousness slowly fade away, he thought for a moment that Martin was in the room with him, talking directly to him, word after word, line after line, helping him find the rest he needed so much.

He hadn’t realized for how long he had been listening until he was woken up by a long silence, followed by a _clank _indicating that the tape had reached its end. He blinked for a few seconds, a little shaken by the realization that he had fallen asleep. He thought about removing the tape from the recorder and getting back to work, but his body was still heavy and his mind oddly at peace, and he ended up walking towards his bed instead. It didn’t take a minute after he squirmed under the blankets for him to fall asleep, something he had not experienced in a while.

He woke up early the next morning, still not exactly fully rested, but feeling a bit lighter, somehow. He took a shower and gathered the papers and tapes he had left on his desk, quietly resigning himself to a new day of exhausting work and almost laughing at how accustomed to it he was, by now. But as he was getting Martin’s tape out of the recorder, he flinched for a second. Hesitant, he eventually put it inside a drawer of his desk. He wasn’t sure why he did it, and didn’t want to think too much about it either. It probably wasn’t that big of a deal. He could still return it another time.


End file.
